


Living Well is the Best Revenge

by Nymm_at_Night



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: And is also J.D.'s understudy, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Cool in college, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hearing Voices, Heathers as a metaphor for sexual trauma, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jeremy Heere can deal with his issues in a constructive manner, Light BDSM, M/M, One's a gif, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, The gang are functioning adults, Two pictures, ish, kill my hands, the best revenge is living well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 05:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11616837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: Jeremy has his first performance in a leading role, and the boys try to celebrate.





	Living Well is the Best Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> I regret posting this already.

The cheers are uproarious as his co-star walks out on stage, swishing her short blue skirt, and Jeremy is struck at once by nerves. He knows, logically, that he’s done a good job at hitting all his notes, getting almost all of the choreography on cue, and pouring his heart and soul into the role.

But he’s still just the understudy, who got a call today saying that Jim, the lead, had had an allergic reaction to some peanuts, and we need you to cover him. And Jeremy rushed over to practice the blocking and his solos, trading his usual chorus costume for the J.D.'s black trench coat.

It’s heavy on his shoulders, not just literally, with his microphone setup hidden in back of it, but because he knows the audience came here for the original cast, not some nerd pretending he can be menacing. Still, there’s the cue from the director, so he steps out from the wings.

If the stage lights are blinding, then it’s nothing compared to the deafening roar of the crowd. It’s strange, bowing without the rest of the chorus around him, safe in the mass of people. He thinks about Michael, sitting out there with a bottle of Mountain Dew Red, just for Jeremy's nerves, and bows.

He makes his way backstage, blood singing with adrenaline, because he’s pretty sure they weren’t booing him, and waves to the chorus as they make their way onto the stage. He gets a couple of smiles and thumbs up, and Jeremy’s so incandescently happy he might pass out, or start floating like a helium balloon.

Instead, he leans back against the back wall of the theater and lets the cool brick ground him as he cracks open a bottle of water from the cooler. He’s good enough at singing that he doesn’t have to worry about busting his throat for tomorrow’s performance, but the cool water is wonderful anyways. Besides, one Red Bull already has him hyper enough– any more caffeine and he's pretty sure he'll start bouncing off the walls.

It's nice, back here, watching the grinning actors take their turns on stage. There's a cool breeze from an open fire escape, and the distant applause is loud enough to drown out the voices. They had stuck around since junior year, and it had been difficult relearning people and school and Michael, especially so with the constant hiss of the SQUIP in his ear. Still, it's been two years now, and a combination of ignoring it and countless bottles of Red have almost glitched it to oblivion. He can still hear it muttering constantly about how he's going to die alone, unloved and unattractive, but it's easier to ignore it now that it's turned into a jumble of voices, discordant and unfocused. Sean Connery, Jack Nicholson, “Sexy Anime Female” and classic Keanu each go off on their own tangents about how four different things about Jeremy make them want to kill themselves, seeing four different futures and giving four different suggestions for how Jeremy can fix his dumpster fire of a life and achieve a favourable outcome if he just  _ obeys _ .

A few minutes later, the whole cast goes out for one last bow, and then Jeremy is mercifully free to shuck the black trenchcoat and tight jeans off in favor of a tee shirt and sweats.

He's just slipping out into the half filled lobby, hair spiked up with sweat after a half hearted attempt to comb it, when a short blur of pink rushes at him, grabs him by the waist, and twirls him around like he's a sack of grapes.

“Jeremy!” Christine shrieks, and lets him go.

“Christine? What are you doing here?”

“A little red bird told us  _ someone  _ landed his first starring role!” She grins and grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him until it feels like the world's spinning off kilter. “You! Were! Amazing!”

Jeremy's just about to tell her that this is a one time thing, that Jim's probably going to be back in time for tomorrow’s show, but suddenly Rich is tackling him, giving him a noogie, and pretty much screaming in his ear.

“Dude! That was sick! You fucked those guys up!”

“Rich–” Jeremy shoves blindly, and feel his fingers jab against Rich's cheek– “Lemme go!”

After an especially fierce rub that Jeremy's sure has turned his hair into a bird's nest, Rich relents and lets go to high five Jake, who's standing there like a lost Land's End model.

And there's his best friend, grinning as he rushes towards him through the crowd and pulling him into a real hug. He can feel the glass bottle in the pocket of Michael's hoodie, squished between them, but it's still nice. He’s honestly surprised that Michael managed to get together so many of their friends on such short notice, but thankful nonetheless. It sucks Jenna couldn't make it, but it's not like he could expect her to come all the way from the west coast for one performance.

Christine throws herself onto the hug pile, Rich and Jake offer two crippling slaps to his back, and Brooke and Chloe materialized from somewhere to pass him a bouquet.

When they finally let him go, red faced and smiling, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Let's get dinner.”

The ride over to IHOP is blissfully short, but it's nice having a moment to let the adrenaline leave his system. Jeremy loves theater, even if it's not quite to Christine levels. Acting is one of the best things in his life, and he can hardly believe that he's good enough at it to be able to follow it as a career. It's easy to lose himself in the role, playing out his lines with the perfect blend of sincerity and aloofness. It feels nice being able to make something good out of what the SQUIP taught him, but it's still exhausting.

The others are already there when they arrive, Brooke settled into the left hand side of the booth with Christine, and Rich and Jake have taken the opposite half. It doesn't take a genius to know Chloe's going to sit with the girls when she and Michael come back from the counter.

Wordlessly, Jeremy shoves himself in next to Rich.

Michael and Chloe come back a few minutes later with trays of pancakes, and in Jeremy's case, waffles. Chloe, of course, shuffles in next to Brooke and slides Christine her fries. Michael's a little more difficult, seeing as the booths were pretty clearly not meant for four people, but they get him in.

“So! What was your favourite part?” Christine chirps when everyone's stopped wolfing down their food like the pack of broke college students they are. Jeremy feels warmth rise in his cheeks. Christine has always done the literature studies, five page analysis due Monday thing with every play she's so much as breathed at, but he'd never thought that she'd do it to one he'd starred in.

Michael coughs and mutters something like “Red World Talking.” Jeremy looks over at him and can't help a surge of pride at the way his cheeks have gone red.

“Dead Girl Walking, huh?” Rich smiles wolfishly, and Jake and Brooke, ever the hype squad, whoop just loudly enough to make the cashier sigh. “You had some serious chemistry with her.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy rubs the back of his neck and tries not to think of the fact that all his friends, most of the people he's ever gotten off to, and probably half of the campus have now seen him half naked and having fake sex on stage. At a loss for words, he says, “The high notes in that one are pretty hard.”

“Hard?” Jake laughs, and Jeremy can feel his face burn.

“I mean, it's rough belting while you're doing–” Jeremy makes a gesture that's too awkward to qualify as obscene and winces at the way his voice is cracking like a kid's– “That!”

Christine giggles and stands on tiptoe so she can lean over and muss Jeremy's hair. “I'll bet it was rough.”

Jeremy just groans and buries his face into his hands, feeling Michael's laughter vibrate through his ribs where their sides touch. “Christine, not you too.”

“Don't worry.” Brooke smiles and pats his hand, consoling. “I'm sure Veronica had a lovely time.”

“I can confirm that Jeremy Heere is excellent at kissing drunk girls,” Chloe crows, twirling her hair around her manicured finger, smile as pointed her eyeliner. “He knows  _ all _ about chugging that Mountain Dew, and bowing down to the will of a dead girl walking.”

The table bursts into laughter at her flirtatious tone, because it's been two years and even if everyone got hurt that night, most of it's aged into prime black comedy material. Even Brooke's snorting into her Shirley Temple, and she's the one who got cheated on during... that.

Jeremy tries to ignore the cold, clammy feeling working its way around his throat.

Chloe's offered up countless apologies to pretty much everyone in their group, even Jeremy, but it's never been the one he's wanted to hear. It's still a sore spot, and on his bad days it still makes him cower away from meeting her gaze, all but run out of the room rather than be alone with her, and stirs up cold anger in his gut when he thinks about it for too long.

He hates that, hates the visceral revulsion he has for someone he loves.

But he's not going to let that ruin a friendship, finally bring it up only to watch their group splinter over an old wound. He's hurt enough people he cares about for a lifetime, so he grins and laughs and tries to ignore the way his nails dig into the fake leather seating.

The conversation relaxes after that, shifting between Rich and Jake's various frat house exploits, Christine's dance practice, and whatever Jenna's doing in San Fran. Jeremy's content to nibble at the remains of his waffles and snuggle back against Michael's shoulder, just listening to his friends talk, laugh instead of feeling like he's being laughed at.

The voices hate that, and one metallic one rises up out of the chorus to hiss about how they'll leave each other broken, suck away their chances at success, and hurt Michael again, so bad he'll never take Jeremy back, but that only makes him want to get closer. It's petty, doing something just to antagonize a half dead AI, but if petty means this, cuddling with Michael, surrounded by five other of his favorite people and and drowning his waffles with three different kinds of compote, then he's petty as hell.

Christine and the rest of the gang say their goodbyes at the restaurant, getting in their cars to check into hotels or start the long drive home. Jeremy, of course, eases into Michael's battered old car, and he picks at the loose strings in the leather as Michael fiddles with the mirrors. And then they're driving, Michael taking the coastal, scenic routes that Jeremy loves. It's a little gesture, but it leaves Jeremey choked up all the same.

It's times like this he remembers how far gone he is for his best friend.

Silently, he threads an arm through Michael's, and leans his head against the warm, solid weight of his shoulder, watching the black ocean roll by under a sea of stars.

They get home and out of the car, and Jeremy doesn't let go for longer than Michael needs to unclasp the seat belt.

They climb the concrete stairs to their flat, and Jeremy still doesn't let go, thumbing circles into the palm of Michael's hand.

He holds it as he fumbles one handedly with the house key, but then Michael pulls away, instead settling it on Jeremy's hip. The change is enough to catch Jeremy's attention, and when he looks at Michael, he's biting his lip and his eyes are dark behind the glasses.

“What's up?”

“Jeremy,” Michael whispers, slipping his hand underneath Jeremy's shirt and ghosting along the curve of his pelvis. “Do you want to fuck?”

“You mean…” Jeremy leans in, as if all their floormates aren’t asleep at two in the morning, “Like...  _ Sex _ ?”

Michael looks everywhere but him, but nods anyways.

Jeremy should balk more at his best friend asking him to fuck him. Hell, junior year, he would have been passed out like a fainting goat. But now, two years later, honestly, it’s not that weird.

They’ve got this…  _ thing _ between them, lost someplace between best friends and dating, and on any given day, Jeremy wouldn’t be able to tell you where on that spectrum they fell. It had started with making out, high and sexually frustrated, in Michael's basement, but every time Michael curled up in Jeremy’s lap, there was less and less pretense of pot and more and more teeth clacking. Even when they left the weed in the basement and headed upstate for college, the kissing had come with them. Jeremy wasn’t really sure when their outings to Seven Eleven or the dingy roller derby had stopped being “dates” and started being  _ Dates _ , but they had.

Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time they’ve made each other come. Memories of Michael rutting against Jeremy’s leg, whining as he kissed his way up his neck and ground him into the couch, flick behind Jeremy’s eyes, and he can feel his face warm.

Still, this is the first time either of them had really mentioned it, talked about it instead of just falling into bed together, and only barely acknowledging it during breakfast the next day. Besides, there's something inexplicably different about frotting against your best friend as he palms you through your jeans and having  _ Sex _ .

_ Sex _ , which for Jeremy has always been more of an entertaining theoretical of sticking someone's dick somewhere interesting rather than, y’know actually having it. He’s equal parts embarrassed and thankful for that, especially after the SQUIP’s cold, robotic prompting to dip his fingers below the waist of Brooke’s skirt, or to play with the strap of Chloe’s bra.

But there's nothing cold about Michael, from his warm, battered hoodie to the kind, patient eyes looking at him for an answer.

Next thing Jeremy knows, he’s on his toes, pressing his lips to Michael’s. He pulls away real quick, like if he’s fast enough, Michael won’t even realise he’s done it.

Michael blinks, and slowly raises his hand to his lips, like Jeremy just punched him and he’s expecting a nose bleed. They lock eyes, and a grin cracks across Michael’s face. “Is that a yes?”

Jeremy nods, the familiar buzz of anxiety and excitement welling up within him. “Just let me rinse off first.”

Michael snorts and slaps his back as Jeremy goes in. “Yeah, you kinda looked like a goth hot pocket up there.”

The shower is nice, and the drum of water against the scarred skin of his back helps drown out the endless litany of what ifs that are racing through his head. Their apartment has kickass water pressure, which in Jeremy’s opinion, makes up for it being right next to an overpass. He squirts some shampoo into his hands, rubbing it into his hair and face to wash off the sweat and stage makeup.

He debates pulling on a shirt and boxers as he towels off. Michael had seemed pretty intent on taking those  _ off _ at some point, but he shrugs and puts them on anyways.

Michael’s chilling on the couch and watching TV when he comes back out, hoodie hanging on the coat rack Dad got them as a housewarming gift. Jeremy takes his usual spot on the right, leaning his head on Michael’s shoulder. He wonders if Michael forgot about the whole thing, or if he had just misheard him, but then Michael’s switching off the set, and turning to him with an unimaginably fond expression.

Jeremy can’t help himself. He reaches an arm around to hold the back of Michael’s neck, and they meet in the middle like two crashing waves. It’s hot, fast, and almost dizzying how passionate Michael is, and Jeremy steels himself to keep up as Michael all but yanks off his shirt. There's still that urge to apologize for the harsh way his ribs jut out, and the pasty tint of his skin, but Michael's touch pulls him from it as he skims his fingers down Jeremy's back, tracing the lines of pink lightning across his spine. After a moment, they pull apart, gasping for breath. Kissed senseless has always been a good look for Michael, and Jeremy takes a moment to appreciate his dark eyes, flush, and bruised lips.

“We should do this on an actual bed.”'

Michael nods, swallowing thickly, and Jeremy stands up, all too aware of the uncomfortable way his boxers shift against him. If they do anything more on this poor couch, he doesn’t think they’ll ever move.

The two of them half run, half stumble to their bedroom, and Michael sits on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Jeremy would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous, but somehow knowing Michael's in the same boat as him helps. He follows, and in a moment of boldness, sits on Michael's lap, facing him. After a second, he figures that if he's in for a penny, he's in for a pound, and rolls his hips. Michael yelps at the friction, and Jeremy grins dopily at him.

It's easier than he imagined it being, when he was still fretting over the possibility of them ever having Sex or worse yet,  _ not _ , taking Michael's face in his hands and planting a kiss on his lips before ghosting down to bite hickies into his neck. Jeremy pulls away after a moment, breathless, and eyes them. They don't stand out like Jeremy's do when he gets marked up, but just knowing they're there is enough. Jeremy wants to cover Michael in them, and while that's a wonderful idea, Michael's shirt is getting in the way.

He pulls back, and Michael gripes at the loss of contact until he sees Jeremy pulling at the hem of his tee, asking permission.

The last time Jeremy saw someone strip that fast, it was a quick change routine. He dives back in, sitting back on his heels so he can sink low enough to scrape his teeth against Michael's nipples. They aren't especially sensitive, but past experience tells him that Michael at least enjoys the way it looks.

Michael sighs contentedly, and leans back against the headboard, pulling Jeremy with him until he's half straddling him. Michael fiddles with his belt until he can pull off his jeans and toss them aside.

Jeremy stills, and weighs his options. They're in uncharted waters now. Michael's looking at him from underneath Jeremy's bony ass with dark eyes, mouth slick and panting, and that's so distracting, and Jeremy's never been good with subtlety, or thinking when he's turned on, so he just blurts out the first thing he can think of. 

“What do you want?”

Michael blinks, and Jeremy can practically see the hourglass turning in his head. He licks his lips. “Uh, handjob. Please. If you're okay with it.”

Huh. He might be able to do that.

Hell, given the... extensive, self documented, research he'd done during high school on the subject, he's pretty sure he can definitely do that.

It's a little weird feeling this confident going into Sex, nerves pushed to the back of his head, but Jeremy can deal. It's comforting, going through the familiar motions of squirting lube from their nightstand into his palm, and rubbing it around long enough to warm it. He wonders if Michael chose this because he knows its the one thing Jeremy has any semblance of experience with.

Probably.

Jeremy feels a surge of gratitude that translates into him sticking his hand down Michael's boxers to palm his semi. “Thanks dude.”

Michael tries to pull his usual wise–ass grin, but his heavy breathing and askew glasses leave it more of a pornographic parody of itself. “Dude, why are you thanking me? You're the one jerking me–”

Jeremy twists his hand and rubs a thumb across Michael's head, smearing precome around it, and Michael's snarky comment is pulled off into a low groan that makes something hot and tight coil in Jeremy's gut.

Emboldened, he pulls his hands away for a moment to drag Michael's underwear down the curve of his hips to around his thighs, making him whimper underneath Jeremy, and wow, that is definitely Michael Mell's penis.

Michael is thicker than him, and Jeremy can barely touch his middle finger and thumb around it when he takes him. An image of Michael stretching him open, filling him up until he can barely move, flits across his mind, and his cock twitches, leaking against his thigh. Jeremy shivers and files that away for next time, if Michael even wants there to be a next time.

Hesitantly, he gives an experimental tug, stealing a high moan from Michael. His cock is already rock hard and leaking, and Jeremy makes sure to flick his wrist in just the right way that his fingers brush against Michael's slit on the downstroke.

Jeremy reaches down between them to cup Michael's balls, rolling them across his fingers, and Michael's sigh, soft and fluttering, fills Jeremy up with a warm tension. “Is this good?”

Michael nods, blissed out, and manages to whisper out one word: “Faster.”

It's easy to oblige Michael, and Jeremy tightens his grip around him enough that Michael bucks into his fist, desperate for pressure. Jeremy quickens his pace, flicking his wrist as fingers slip from shaft to head and then back down.

His desperation is painfully clear as Michael falls in against Jeremy's chest, undone by his hands. Jeremy grins, because this is something good he can do for Michael, Michael who's rolling his hips and thrusting up into his hand, desperately hunting for release. He pushes into the crook of Jeremy's neck, breathing heavy and focused, like Jeremy's palm around him, his eyes on him, and the shoulder Michael's face is buried into are the only things that matter.

With a particularly rough swipe over the head and slit, Michael makes a loud, garbled noise halfway between Jeremy's name and a curse and digs his fingers into Jeremy's thighs hard enough to bruise. Jeremy gives one long, last stroke as Michael whimpers and shoots into his hands, come dripping over Jeremy's fist.

Jeremy settles on wiping his hand off into his dirty shirt, because hey, it's going in the laundry anyways, and awkwardly cleans off Michael's spent cock.

They sit there, panting for a moment, Michael's forehead resting against Jeremy's collar bones. Slowly, he pulls away, and takes the comforting afterglow with him. Jeremy is left uncomfortably unsure, anxiety gnawing at his stomach.

“That was good. Jesus Christ.” Michael must have seen his face, because he smiles and cups it with his hand. ”That was  _ really _ good.”

Jeremy can't help but preen at the praise– the way Michael says it, honeyed and soft, does bad things to him. After a moment, his hand drops to Jeremy's waist to trace his nails against the pale skin and freckles. “So.”

“Huh?”

Michael just smiles at his stupid, deer in the headlights face, and the look in his eyes is such a combination of lust and affection, Jeremy wants to drown in it. “What do you want me to do?”

“Uh...” Jeremy's eyes look anywhere but Michael's. He's had a  _ lot _ of ideas of what they might do when they finally had Sex, but suddenly nothing is coming to mind. Honestly, he'd probably be happy just jerking it out in the shower at this point, he's that painfully hard, but the eager look in Michael's eyes is impossible to say no to. “Whatever you want?”

Michael frowns, but doesn't pull away. “Are you sure?”

There's a whisper of nerves, but Jeremy pushes the voices' muttering out of head. It's Michael, and if he can trust him with his life, then he can trust him with his dick. “Positive.”

Michael kisses him one last time, smiling against his lips. Carefully, he worms his way out from under Jeremy, slides off the bed, and kneels between his legs. His teeth rasp against Jeremy as he sucks a hickey into the inside of his thigh. After a painfully long moment of Michael biting and abusing the skin, and Jeremy choking back a desperate whimper as he tries to keep still, he pulls away. The dark, purple circle of bruised skin is definitely going to be there tomorrow, and knowing Michael, the day after that.

Michael grins at his handiwork and Jeremy lets out a strangled gasp as he goes back down to bite a line of hickies that trail up to the hem of his boxers. Satisfied with a job well done, he pulls away and lets his head lean gently against Jeremy's thigh. Slow and deliberate, he nuzzles against Jeremy's clothed dick, staring up with half lidded eyes.

Jeremy swallows a needy whine. It’s embarrassing how hard he is already, and oh god, Michael’s got his mouth on his cock, licking him obscenely through the fabric, and he watches in horror as it twitches against Michael’s lips.

Michael grins like he’s just managed to get Jeremy to chuck himself off of Rainbow Road. Jeremy, for his part, also feels like chucking himself off a cliff. Michael pulls away and he can’t stifle his groan.

Smiling, Michael loops his fingers around the waistband of Jeremy’s boxers and shimmies them down his legs. Jeremy just fists his fingers in the sheets, because what else is he supposed to do? If he tries to help, he’s probably just going to end up hitting Michael’s face, and then Michael will be pissed and would probably leave, and yeah, Jeremy’s not going to ruin Sex and a fourteen year friendship because he gets handsy.

Michael makes an appreciative noise, and Jeremy flushes and looks away. His dick is nothing to write home about. It’s biggish, but nothing compared to what he’s seen other people with on the internet, or TV, or anywhere else, and it’s got a weird curve in it that he’s always hated.

Thankfully, Michael doesn’t seem to notice, let alone care. He fishes a condom out of the pocket of his discarded pants, and Jeremy feels butterflies in his stomach as it hits him that Michael's been planning this. The idea that he wants this that badly is almost as hot as the way Michael's tearing open the wrapper with his teeth. Michael puts it on him, and strokes him quick enough that Jeremy's brain shorts out for a minute.

After a moment of contact, Michael lets Jeremy go, and then wraps his lips around the head of Jeremy’s cock, flicking his tongue around the head, and Jeremy swears that if he does anything more, he’s going to come right then. Thankfully, Michael notices the way Jeremy’s breathing goes high and breathy, and while he doesn’t pull off, he does stop moving, letting Jeremy savor the wet heat of his mouth without having to worry about embarrassing himself more than usual.

After a moment, the edge goes away, and Jeremy is stuck wanting more. He rolls his hips, and Michael’s hand reaches up to force him still, the other one playing with his balls. Michael pushes his head down, almost pulls off of it, them goes down even deeper, until he’s taken all of it. It feels amazing, Michael sucking him off, but then something in the room changes.

It’s so sudden, he can’t really put a name to what causes it.

Maybe it’s the smell of wine and cheap vodka drifting in from the block party he can hear from floor below.

Maybe it’s the pungent lavender detergent Michael picked out for the sheets.

Maybe it’s the high moan Michael makes, the way his orgasm is building too fast, running away from him and any semblance of control, which by all means should be fucking amazing, but just makes Jeremy feel like he’s choking on water.

All he knows is that one second, he’s got his fingers tangled in the sheets, eyes fluttered shut as his best friend goes down on him, and the next second he’s flailing like a drowning man, yanking Michael off him by the hair and falling off the bed. His heart’s going a mile a minute, he can practically feel nails, no, claws scraping down his neck and caressing his chest, thighs, everywhere, and stuck in the narrow space between the closet door and the bed, he feels like a cornered animal.

“Dude, what the hell?!” Michael’s voice is raspy and furious, and holy shit, Michael’s going to kill him and the voices are screaming that he’s going to deserve every bit of it.

“Michael, I’m… I’m so sorry.” God, it hurts to talk, but he needs to apologize, because it’s a gesture, and gestures are important.

“Jeremy?” The anger drains out of Michael’s voice, but he still sounds like he’s had strep for a week. Michael reaches out for him, and when his hand wraps around Jeremy’s arm to help him up, Jeremy can’t help the way he flinches. He hates it when he pulls away to let Jeremy pick himself up, torn between that warmth, and the smell of shampoo, liquor, and pennies on a hot day that comes with it.

It takes him a moment to stand, still shaking, breathing too fast and too shallow, and he leans against the closet door for support. Maybe if he puts all of his weight into it, he’ll phase through it and escape the look Michael’s giving him, equal parts scared and pretending not to be.

Jeremy leans his head against the door, and shuts his eyes, trying to drown out the cacophony of calculated, saccharine platitudes ringing in his head. “The loudest one is mine. The loudest one is mine.”

When he opens his eyes, Michael is on the edge of the bed, still naked, flushed, and looking concerned. It’s not the first time he’s seen Jeremy do this weird ritual, but Jeremy knows that he knows that’s only because he so rarely has to actually say the words out loud.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jeremy looks at the floor. They haven’t talked about that night, really talked about it instead of just cracking jokes about arson or the Dillinger's' shitty bathroom design, in ages. The long apology followed by a longer talk about their feelings and shit had felt like it pretty much covered all the bases, but he'd be lying if he said he'd told everything that night.

He had, at least, told everything he thought was important to Michael, to them.

Apparently not.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Michael rub at his throat and wince, and Jeremy feels a wave of guilt wash over him. He owes it to Michael at least.

“Yeah.”

Michael scooches over on the bed, the sheets still rumpled, and pats the space next to him. Jeremy pauses, debates whether he trusts himself to sit there like this, and eventually gives in and joins Michael.

“So. The party.”

“Fucking Halloween,” Michaels sighs, fists clenching around the sweat-soaked sheets, and Jeremy guesses that he’s thinking about how final that big bonding moment felt, and why is Jeremy bringing up the worst night of their lives now?

“Before, the bathroom”– Jeremy swallows down the reflexive apology– “Chloe, she...” Jeremy glances at Michael and tries not to quail at the way his eyes are boring into him. “She was drunk.  _ So drunk _ . Like, she must have been doing shots or something, she was that sloshed, I don't even know–”

Michael squeezes his shoulder for just a second before he pulls away, grounding him and putting him back on topic. Jeremy lets out a long breath, trying to sort the sentences before he mangles them, but the words still come out too quick, consonants and vowels jumbling together. “She said she had a surprise, and that Brooke was upstairs, so I went with her but Brooke wasn't there, and she locked me in and she wouldn't stop, and the SQUIP wouldn't let me stop, and, and...”

Just remembering it turns his stomach, and yeah, he should have probably talked about this to someone, but Chloe's been so happy lately, and she's become such a better person, and Jeremy doesn't want to be the person to bring it up and ruin her life. It wasn't him and it wasn't her. It couldn't be her, because the alternative is too painful to even contemplate.

He glances over at Michael, who looks like he's going to vomit. “Chloe… raped you?”

“No! She was wasted, and it’s not like she could have known, and she didn’t really get very far!” Jeremy chokes down the urge to say that it shouldn’t even matter, because that’s just opening another can of worms Michael will pick through relentlessly. He loves Michael, but sometimes the sheer affection sets him on edge, like he can’t deal with someone actually being concerned about him. “Please, Michael, I don’t even think she really remembers most of Halloween.”

Michael looks at him like they’re going to have a Talk about this later, but acquiesces. “Shit, I'm so, so sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” Jeremy sighs, and stares at the fish tank, watching the bubbles jostle the glass shrimp. He can still feel her cupping his cheek, thumbing his waist, grabbing at his crotch, like some sort of phantom pain. There's a tired ache in his chest, like he’s caving in, because this is supposed to be over.

It’s been two years, and it’s supposed to be over, and Jeremy’s supposed to be  _ better _ .

Jeremy can’t hold back the sob. It’s been two fucking years, and that stupid Tic Tac is still trying to ruin his life. Sure, he still has voices in his head, and nightmares, and maybe he’d had a panic attack at the pet store because one of the dog collars zapped him, but he had been doing so well, with a job, and friends, and a scholarship, everything the SQUIP said he’d never get without it. Fuck, he'd even managed to get through his costar straddling him in front of a couple hundred people. But now Jeremy feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under his feet, because he didn’t even realize how much he wanted this with Michael until that stupid pill held it just out of reach.

Michael’s gently touching his hand, like he’s gentling a horse, afraid of spooking Jeremy. He takes it, and then some, burying his head against Michael’s shoulder as he bawls. His face is running, and he knows he should try and slow his breathing down, get some air back into his lungs, but he can't help it, because if two years weren't enough, then he's never going to be better, never going to be free. Michael folds his arms around Jeremy, like he's a cage that can keep all the shitty things that happened away from them, and holds him tight enough to slow his frantic, racing thoughts.

There’s a loud thump from the floor, and a muffled shout of “Keep it down, jackass, I’m trying to sleep!”

Michael glares daggers at the carpet and stomps hard enough Jeremy can see the water in their fishtank ripple. “Shut the  **_ fuck _ ** up, Debra!”

There’s no response from the apartment below, thank god. Michael narrows his eyes. “That’s what I thought,  _ bitch _ .”

Something about the absurdity of this, Michael looking like he’s about to shank the floorboards, their betta fish staring at them in hunger and confusion, both of them sweaty and naked and Jeremy sobbing over eating a fucking iPhone, hits him, and Jeremy can’t help the giggle that bubbles up.

“Dude, are you okay?”

Jeremy doesn’t say anything, just nods and wipes his eyes, mostly because he’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing. He wraps his arms around Michael and pushes him back onto the bed, letting their legs dangle off the edge. It feels like they stay that way forever, staring up at the spackled ceiling.

Jeremy’s breathing has slowed, and he no longer feels like he’s going to die. Panic has once again given into blissful clarity, which is nice. What’s nicer is Michael’s face next to him, eyes fluttered shut, pretending to sleep, hair still mussed. He can see the hickeys blooming across his chest like links in a chain, the soft curve of his belly, and the bright lines of his tattoo against dark skin.

He knows Michael would never hurt him, but that still isn't enough, apparently.

Something flashes across his mind, and he sits up, bedsprings squeaking in protest. After a moment, Michael sighs fondly and follows him up. “Are you okay?”

He nods, because he's going to  _ make  _ things okay _ , whether his garbage brain and all the voices in it want it or not.  _ “Look, I want to try something. It’s not like, you or anything. I just– I need to see something. Please.”

Michael shrugs, looking confused. “Go for it?”

Jeremy leans in, and presses his lips against Michael’s. It’s nothing big, practically chaste, and after a tense moment, Michael laces their fingers together. Things are getting a little heated, and the voices are getting a little louder, nothing urgent, but there’s a creeping sense of dread, right on the cusp of too much.

“Stop.”

Michael does, and Jeremy feels such a tide of relief as Michael pulls away, looking at him patiently, it’s overwhelming. Jeremy grins, catching his breath, and Michael smiles. He’s about to say something when Jeremy catches his mouth in his. It's nice, just sitting here kissing his best friend, like they used to do in Senior year, before college classes and auditions and commissions made them grow up. Still, there's heat coiling in his belly, and Michael is, as always, too damn attractive, so Jeremy pulls away just enough to start worrying his neck for the second time that night.

“Hey, uh, dude?”

Jeremy pulls away from Michael’s clavicle, and looks up at his concerned face. “Yeah?”

“You feeling alright?” Michael scratches at the back of his neck, like he always does when he’s worried but doesn’t want to show it. “You don’t have to do this.”

Jeremy pauses, licking his lips. He still wants this, wants Michael every way he can get him, but now there's an undercurrent of spite to it, because how fucking dare the SQUIP try to take Michael away from him again?

“That’s why I want to.”

“Cool.” Michael nods and shuffles off the bed, and kneels in front of Jeremy. He’s halfway through kissing up the inside of Jeremy’s thighs when Jeremy tears his head away from how amazing Michael looks beneath him and realizes what he’s going to do.

“Michael, I just,” Jeremy flails his hands, because he isn’t really sure of how to express the fact that he ripped his dick out Michael’s mouth about an hour ago, or any of the emotions about it that are screaming through his head. Michael looks at him, biting his lip, and he settles for a vague sense of concerned awe. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Michael has gone the reddest Jeremy’s ever seen him. He shrugs. “I mean, yeah, but uh…”

He mutters something too quiet and too fast for Jeremy to catch.

“What?”

“I said it’s fine!” Michael looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. “Better than fine! I’m, uh, into that... and the hair thing...”

Michael is staring at the carpet, and Jeremy is staring at Michael, because holy fuck, that's sending his head straight to the gutter in a way it really shouldn't. After a tense moment, he gently takes Michael’s head and ignores the voices screaming that  _ no, this isn’t how this works, you asshole, you’re going to hurt him, ruin him, stop _ , and pushes him gently towards his dick. He groans softly, like he's been waiting forever for this, and hitches one of Jeremy's legs over his shoulder to get a better angle, but doesn't do anything.

Jeremy can feel his face burning. Michael wants him to take the lead.

Carefully, he tangles his fingers into Michael's hair, heart and dick fluttering at the way his breath catches, and pushes him down onto his cock. The sight of Michael's lips stretched around his dick as he sinks into him is just  _ perverse, _ and the way he can feel Michael tense around him is even more so. It takes all of his self control not to thrust in as hard as he can.

Michael hums softly and picks up the rhythm, letting Jeremy tug him along as he goes deeper and deeper. Jeremy half expects the cold, clammy feeling to come back, lace up his spine and ruin him, and them, and this again, but everytime it that wave threats to crash, he tightens his grip on Michael's hair and stops him, almost pulling him off completely and waiting until the tide rolls out and the voices recede to a dull roar before pushing Michael down again.

God, the control over Michael, over himself, is both novel and intoxicating. On his own, getting off has always been wild. It hits him like a freight train most of the time, leaving him boneless and splayed out on his bed as he wipes his search history for the millionth time. Even with Michael, it’s always been him leading them through it, grinding down until Jeremy can't help but fall back against the covers and do nothing but take it, pulled open and vulnerable.

But this, this is beyond words.

Jeremy's riding the power high as he forces Michael down again, even as the voices scream to pull out, run and hide before Michael gets sick of playing along and hurts him. It shouldn't be this hot, knowing that if he wanted, he could pull out, go to bed without ever touching Michael again, and Michael would just have to  _ deal with it _ , cold and uncomfortable, but the threat still leaves him weak.

The thought's cut off with a beautiful moan from Michael as Jeremy pushes against the back of his throat and stays there. Possessed by some weird, unfathomable urge, Jeremy presses his fingers against Michael’s neck, and god, the visceral proof of how deep he’s buried in him nearly bowls him over. Michael hums contentedly around his dick, and puts a hand over Jeremy’s. He shudders, and tries to quiet the needy sounds that are pouring out of his mouth as Michael works him over, sucking and licking until Jeremy can't see straight.

Michael pulls off a little, and Jeremy can hear how heavy his breathing is. A moment later, he's flicking his tongue across Jeremy's slit, and  _ holy shit _ , he didn't know anything could feel this good.

“Michael, please,” He whimpers, and suddenly Michael's half lidded eyes are on him like a spotlight. “I'm not going to last much longer, just–”

He half expects Michael to pull away and finish him off with his hands, but he just goes deeper, face pushed against the pale skin of Jeremy’s stomach. The sight of him, docile and so damn eager to please, like he’d do anything to stay here, between Jeremy's thighs, is incredible. Jeremy fists his fingers in Michael's hair and shoves his head down onto his dick, fucking his mouth and savoring the overwhelming feeling of him choking on his cock.

He knows he's babbling something embarrassing, needy and desperate and awful, but he's too high on Michael and the vindictive pleasure of spiting whatever is left of the SQUIP to stop. He can't tamp down the endless litany of Michael's name, and how good he looks, sucking him off, and every sick thing he wants to do with him, to him, but it feels far away and distant compared to what Michael's doing to him, pulling the tangled words out of him with nothing but his mouth.

His rambling cuts off as he makes a wounded noise and spills into Michael. Michael swallows around him one more time, dancing on the knife's edge between pleasure and too much.

Slowly, Michael pulls off, looking thoroughly debauched, and the sight of him licking cum off his lips is forever going to be burned into Jeremy's mind. “Good?”

Jeremy can only weakly nod, he's so spent. Most of him wants to just flop back against the covers, and sleep for the next century, but manners win out over exhaustion. Weak kneed, he gets up and heads to the bathroom to clean up. Michael joins him in the doorframe a moment later, sipping a glass of ice water. Wordlessly, Jeremy hands him his toothbrush and a wet towel.

They've had a lot of awkward silences after making out, or grinding, or whatever, but this isn't it. Jeremy just feels comfortable, like he's slipped into a warm bath, as he lies down on his bed. Michael joins a minute later, pressing his body against Jeremy's spine like a puzzle piece. Jeremy's just about to drift off, coming down from the caffeine and adrenaline high that's been keeping him up all night, when he hears Michael's sleepy voice in his ear.

“I love you.”

Jeremy pauses, because while they say those words a lot, he can feel it in his gut that this is different. He sighs warmly and laces his fingers with Michael's.

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look guys, I just have mad gigantic feelings about Jeremy reclaiming his sexual agency and autonomy after basically having everything sex related controlled by the SQUIP.  
> A very special thank you to my lovely beta, forest-expertrees on tumblr, for knowing what an Oxford comma is!  
> Fun Fact: The working title for this was "Brojobs" and I got publicly shamed for writing this.  
> Comments/Criticism are always the best!


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